


raised on promises

by el_em_en_oh_pee



Series: tumblr "drabbles" [17]
Category: One Direction (Band), Tom Petty (Musician)
Genre: (kinda), Age Difference, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Rough Sex, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 13:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7533697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el_em_en_oh_pee/pseuds/el_em_en_oh_pee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three days ago they stood in the surf, Pacific ocean pounding against the California shoreline. Harry’d been wearing those ubiquitous black jeans of his, rolled up at the ankles and getting wet anyway, salt stiffening what Tom <i>knows</i> can’t really be denim and spray wetting him up to his knees anyway. His shirt was silk, delicate and patterned, blowing open in the wind.<br/>Harry had turned to look at him, pushed his sunglasses up on top of his head, hair whipping around them, and half-smiled. “Let’s get out of here,” he’d said. “LA is too small. Let’s drive.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	raised on promises

**Author's Note:**

> from [this post](http://dulosis.tumblr.com/post/147510895281/please-do-not-talk-to-me-unless-its-about-my) and [this reply](http://dulosis.tumblr.com/post/147629244106/literallyfuckeveryone-replied-to-your-post). in short - canon fic where american girl was written about harry styles, conceptually speaking, by 26-year-old tom petty.
> 
> crossposted from tumblr.

 

Tom can hardly even remember where they are right now. Everything’s different in 2016; bigger, louder, brighter. There’s less grime everywhere, less smoke, but Tom doesn’t feel like it’s cleaner, either.

Three days ago they stood in the surf, Pacific ocean pounding against the California shoreline. Harry’d been wearing those ubiquitous black jeans of his, rolled up at the ankles and getting wet anyway, salt stiffening what Tom _knows_  can’t really be denim and spray wetting him up to his knees anyway. His shirt was silk, delicate and patterned, blowing open in the wind.

Harry had turned to look at him, pushed his sunglasses up on top of his head, hair whipping around them, and half-smiled. “Let’s get out of here,” he’d said. “LA is too small. Let’s drive.”

“Yeah, sure,” Tom had said. It wasn’t because he was transfixed by the curve of Harry’s fingers and the raised ink under some of his darker tattoos. It wasn’t because of that dimple of Harry’s and the way it popped when he was hilt-deep in Harry’s mouth. It wasn’t the way Harry never once talked about the band Tom’s heard he was in for years even though Tom could tell he missed it like the air in his lungs after a particularly long, weighty exhale.

It was the song. It was the hope Harry didn’t talk about, and how restless he was in his own skin. The way he would run his fingers through his hair, over and over and over again, till Tom caught Harry’s hand in his own and trapped it tight against a wall and leaned in, taking the kisses he craved with his teeth.

Harry’s so, so young and so beautiful. Funny. Quiet. Focused. He was born forty-four years after Tom, but with the time machine and everything, Tom’s really only five years older than him. Five and forty-four, maybe; he’s been avoiding his older self. He's been avoiding most things. Flying under the radar as much as he possibly can.

They’re somewhere colder now. Somewhere north. It’s not cold enough to snow, not by a long shot, but after the heat of the Southern California beaches it might as well be. Harry’s still in that silk shirt, unbuttoned. His jeans are unbuttoned, too, but not unzipped. Hair curls over the waistband of his boxers.

Everything he owns is so expensive and so flimsy.

“Harry,” Tom says, desperately. It’s cloudy, but the setting sun still frames the curve of Harry’s ass and glows through the drape of Harry’s shirt. Tom’s hands feel enormously empty. His fingers feel thick, too thick to hold a guitar, let alone play one. His is sitting right by his chair and he can't even reach over and take it. There’s a song under Harry’s skin and Tom needs to touch it to learn it. He’ll be stuck until he does.

“Tom,” Harry says. There’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He has a bottle of beer in one hand, loose between his fingers, but it’s been half-drunk for so long that it’s long passed sweating for lukewarmness. The label is curling off at one corner. Tom blinks a few times; the label goes out of focus and comes back in. There’s something to the way Harry’s rings glint dully against the glass, clinking obnoxiously when they jostle it.

“Lemme touch you,” Tom says, so Harry slinks over, straddling Tom’s legs but not sitting down. Tom slides his hands on either side of Harry’s waist, slipping under his shirt, fingers hooking under the waistband of first his jeans, then his boxers. He rubs a thumb against the laurels on Harry’s hips.

Harry fucking Styles. He’d fit in well with so many of Tom’s contemporaries.

“You gonna kiss me?” Harry asks, a teasing lilt to his voice, so Tom leans in. He digs his right thumb in deep, enough to leave a fingernail mark etched into Harry’s skin, and Harry gasps and slumps forward till he’s fully sitting, chest pressing against Tom’s chest. Tom catches his mouth in a kiss. As usual, there’s very little finesse. They don’t need it. With Harry, teeth clacking and lips splitting and scratches welting up on their backs comes easy, drags the orgasms out multiple times in a night.

Harry’s cock is already rising, thick and hot, in his jeans at just the first taste. Tom only has to suck Harry’s lower lip into his mouth and bite down to feel the weight of Harry’s dick pressing against his waist.

Harry talks slow and he walks slow but he still moves almost too fast for Tom to keep up. Tom doesn’t know if he’s running from or running to, but he does know that he’s content to run with Harry for a ways.

“Gonna touch me?” Harry asks, gasping against Tom’s lips. They’re not even properly kissing anymore. It’s just lip against tooth and lip against lip, beer-sour breaths mingling between them.

"I am touching you," says Tom, but he slides a hand across and down till he's cupping Harry's cock anyway. Harry groans and cants his hips forward, rolling his dick into Tom's palm and knocking the back of Tom's hand against his own dick.

Tom is only half-hard but his cock chubs up fast at that friction. "Could blow you," he offers, but Harry shakes his head.

"Better idea," he grunts. He rises up enough to unceremoniously push down his jeans and boxers in one fell swoop, then steps back to kick them off his legs, so Tom follows suit and opens his flies, works his own jeans halfway down his thighs. By the time he's done that Harry is back and slicking a handful of the contents of a bottle of Jergens Natural Glow between his legs. He takes Tom's cock in his hand and scoots forward, carefully leaning into Tom and sinking down.

"This isn't going to work like this," Tom says, but Harry manages to sort them out so that he's half-standing over Tom's lap, Tom's dick snug between his slick thighs.

"Where there's a will," Harry says, and leans in to bite at Tom's mouth again. Tom's fairly certain his lips are actually bruised, but he doesn't care. He'll remember the feeling - sore, overly warm, often tingling - when the song finally comes to him and he's singing it out.

He can't roll his hips that much, but he can jerk them upward in tiny, abortive movements so that his cock drags minutely back and forth between Harry's straining thighs. And it's the look on Harry's face that does it, really, the sweat glistening over Harry's skin and the flush spreading over his chest and his cheeks as he rolls his eyes up heavenward like he's praying, or like he's caught in a memory, or something.

Tom digs his thumbs into the ink of Harry's laurels again, fingers curling around the baby lovehandles on Harry's hips and holding tight. "Gonna jerk yourself off?" he asks, but Harry shakes his head.

"There's friction," Harry says, and Tom supposes that's true, supposes the way Harry's dick is catching against the hair on Tom's lower stomach is something. There's certainly precome smearing against his skin under his shirt, alright.

"If you're sure," says Tom, and he drops it in favor of holding Harry still above him as he thrusts, the tiny little pushes between Harry's impossibly soft thighs.

"I was born sure," Harry says, and Tom can tell that's a lie if there ever was one but Harry is here and his eyes are dark and dancing in the low light of the hotel room and if he is sure about anything, he's sure about the sex. They're high above whatever the fuck city this is, and the door to the balcony is wide fucking open and letting all the cold in. But the room is air conditioned, too, so maybe they're letting the cold out. Maybe it's just as cold inside as it is outside.

It doesn't fucking matter, because Harry is a furnace above him, sweat now forming rivulets down his chest and soaking into the material of that silk shirt that never seems to come off. A drop falls onto Tom's face, just by his nose, and he almost sneezes.

Kisses Harry instead, and this time it's abnormally gentle, Harry's lips stroking against Tom's own, tongue trailing against the seam of his mouth, teeth tucked demurely away. One of Harry's hands comes up from where he's bracing himself against the wall behind Tom's back and cradles Tom's cheek and, abruptly, Tom feels like he fits in his own skin again, like he can bend his fingers and move his hands, so he does, pushing his right hand away from Harry's hip and bringing it around to the small of Harry's back.

There's so much sweat gathered there that it wets the palm of Tom's hand completely, but he doesn't care. He misses the grime of his time, and this sweat goes a long way toward making him feel like he's at least a little bit at home. He brings his hand around and squeezes it between his and Harry's bodies and wraps his sweaty palm around Harry's dick.

Harry shouts and thrusts up, the movement of his thighs a titillating shock to Tom. Tom gasps, in turn, biting Harry's lower lip and turning the kiss aggressive again, their standard fare. "Harry," Tom says, and Harry grins dopily down at him.

"Tom," he returns, and he's way too far gone to sound smug, but Tom can tell the intention is there.

"You're real fucking unique, kid," Tom says, and he falls silent for the few remaining thrusts it takes him to come, streaking the insides of Harry's thighs with it.

When Harry comes, a few moments later, the blunt head of his dick catching against the hair on Tom's stomach and blurting jizz all down his front, he sits back, grinning triumphantly, and wipes his eyes with the back of his forearm.

"Nice talk," Harry says, and Tom would accuse him of being passive aggressive but the little shit is serious. He understand that Tom has been reading his body with his hands, that Tom has been trying to feel the details of the song with his guitar-calloused fingertips.

"Getting there," Tom says, and Harry nods. He presses a shockingly soft kiss high on Tom's cheekbone and climbs off Tom's lap, walks out the door to the balcony, hips swaying as he goes.

In the half-light of the lamp across the room, Tom can just make out the red furrows where his nails dug in. Harry is bare-fucking assed, standing on the balcony, leaning over with his elbows propped against the railing. Tom can't distinguish his hole from here but he can remember it, how soft it is, and dark, and how it tastes still wet from the shower or from Tom's jizz. He's still wearing that goddamned silk shirt, unbuttoned and flapping in the wind and riding up the small of his back, caught above one half of his ass and draping over the other.

"You're a million miles away, aren't you?" Tom asks, eventually, but Harry doesn't reply, just stares out past the traffic crawling along on the streets outside the window, headlights too far away to be considered anything close to blinding. Tom likes to think that he can make out that Harry is shivering, half naked in the cold night air like that, but he knows he can't tell for sure.

He leans over and reaches for his guitar.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [original post](http://dulosis.tumblr.com/post/147629244106/literallyfuckeveryone-replied-to-your-post)


End file.
